Waffle Irons
by Jacksaw
Summary: He's dead, but he still lives on. In more ways then one. / Jason hates waffle irons. (Temporary oneshot. May be updated.)


It's long after midnight. Tim stumbles into his apartment, peels off his mask, and promptly collapses on the couch. He doesn't feel very well. His mask had filtered most of the Joker Gas, but some must have seeped through. That was why he felt sick. But he isn't dead yet, so it must not have been enough to kill. Good.

He heaves himself off the couch, and stumblesgroggily into his small kitchen. He grabs the handle of the coffee pot and a mug, and pours out a cold mugful of black. He gulps down a big mouthful. The liquid is clammy and bitter on his tongue, but at least it'll keep him awake. He downs the rest with difficulty.

He grabs his bag, hanging from the coat stand, andriffles through it. Restricted file A, restricted file B, file C― aha! He pulls out the folder with the clearly written letters: RED HOOD. Placing it on the coffee table, he sits back down on the couch, rolling his shoulders back wearily. He flips open to thick folder, flicking past all the thickly stapled pages. He reaches the end of the folder. There is only a few sheets in the last pile, and a grainy picture of a guy in a red helmet aiming with a missile launcher. He picks it up. The Red Hood has been more active lately, showing up at several places, and killing people. Criminals. Bruce had asked him to look for things he and Nightwing might have missed.

He begins to read.

_RED HOOD._

_First sighted: 2013  
__Gender: Male_

Damn, he can already feel his eyes closing. He slugs down another mouthful of the disgusting coffee and continues.

_Height: 6' 0" (estimation)  
__Weight: Unknown_

He stifles a yawn.

_Hair color: Unknown  
__Eye color: Unknown_

God, this thing is long.

_Physical condition: Appears to be peak human.  
__Training: Appears to be trained in several martial arts. Including the Chinese art of―_

Yeah, yeah. Blah blah blah. He scans the rest of the report. Nothing strike him as familiar or particularly suspicious. He flips back to the first pages and goes on reading.

_Training: Appears to be trained in several martial arts. Including the Chinese art of Wing Tsun, and what appears to be a diverged form of boxing. Origin unknown.  
__Weaponry Training: Appears to be a expert marksman. Shown to be skilled with knives, guns and missile launchers. Origin of training is unknown._

The words were swimming now. He puts down the paper and shuts his eyes. He leans back on the sofa. He feels nauseous. Maybe a bit of sleep will do him good.

* * *

He wakes up at ten the next morning (late by Bat-standard), and finds a headache pounding deep behind his left eyebrow. Scratch that. It feel like Thor decided to use his head for target practice. The second thing he notices is the blanket- nothing special, just wool. That is, until he remembers the blanket hadn't been there last night.

Something is wrong. Someone has broken in.

He hadn't expected anyone to be able to find him. He was after all, only in a dingy little apartment off Crime Alley. No one would expect to find him here. But someone has found him.

He sits up and considers the situation. He's been out for a long time, and if the intruder wanted to hurt/kill him, he would have done it already. Besides, anyone who would be able to figure out he was here was a Bat, and Bats don't hurt each other. So, he figures, he's safe.

He hears a clatter in the kitchen, like the time when Jason tried to make waffles and knocked over his waffle iron on it. There's a yelp of pain, and muffled curse. Tim grimaces out of reflex. Last time he heard words that bad was before Jason died.

Tim heaves himself off the couch. Whoever it is, he can't cook. He better go help before he burns down the house. The couch springs creak. Loudly. He winced.

The string of curses (that would have earned him several mouthfuls of soap) stopped short. There was yet another crash, and the twinkling sound of glass shattering. Tim races to the kitchen.

Its an utter mess. There is batter all over the walls, smeared on the fridge, and even the ceiling. There are pots and pans everywhere, some with dents that weren't there yesterday. Eggshells litter the floor, and the white is like spider-webbing, stretching across everything. The wash basin is full to overflowing, with soap pouring over the edge, and the water left flowing.

Sighing, Tim leans over and twists the faucet. The water drips to a stop. This is going to be one hell of a mess to clean up.

* * *

_"Jason? What happened to the kitchen?"_

_"Go back to bed, Tim. Your fever hasn't gone down yet."_

_""Bruce is going to kill you for this mess. What were you even trying to do?"_

_"Make waffles."_

_"How did waffles turn into this mess? And what happened to your foot?"_

_"Waffle iron fell on it."_

_"You dropped the waffle iron on your foot."_

_"Yeah. Are you listening?"_

_"You need any help?"_

_"No."_

_"Really?"_

_"Yeah. Go back to sleep. You're sick, remember?"_

_"Hard to forget with this pounding in my head."_

_"Go make to sleep, Tim. I'll get Al to help. Don't worry. I won't blow up the kitchen."_


End file.
